


settling for your ghost

by deathclub



Series: admiration in falling asleep. [1]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Deathfic, Drabble, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Prologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 10:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14590719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathclub/pseuds/deathclub
Summary: 'Tis a fearful thing to love what death can touch, Chaim Stern once had written. And Junhui believes it to be true. That the person who owns your heart would someday take it with them when they give in to the allure of death. It's a thought that never passes your mind until it happens. And when it does, the empty grave where your heart once flourished, now inhabits the ghost of memories of a time when you could still bear happiness.





	settling for your ghost

**Author's Note:**

> **a preface to a much bigger story.** so buckle up children, it's going to be a wild ride.
> 
> gosh, it's such a weird feeling to actually start writing this. i've had this stored in my head for years, but with original characters. to bring it to life after all this time is frightening, but super exciting too. i hope i do myself justice with this.
> 
> the title comes from the song _beloved_ by april smith and the great picture show [♡](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlK4tfBAiK8)
> 
>  **list of cws for this chpt:**  
>  \+ the whole thing is abt losing someone from sui so yeah. big warning here  
> nothing is graphic and the death is only mentioned but deeply implied throughout the entire prologue. the majority of the future parts of this won't be about death, but the growth and struggles of their friendship since childhood.

* * *

A cloth bound journal.

A frayed bound-marker.

Unraveling corners, weary from the sorrow and hopelessness that live within. The only thing his best friend, his boyfriend trusted to keep all of his secrets. Inside, words stretch the vast pages of the book. He contemplates carving out his eyes; therefore, ending his overwhelming compulsion to peak at what lies in between the covers. His breath throbs inside lungs, fearing he'll accidentally take a glimpse at any of the suffering written in pen. Forbidding, and thick with an ache that he is certain seeps from the pages. A bygone playground rusted over from passed time and abandonment. In front of an endless field where it stands alone, saving the ghosts that dwell inside the crumbling warehouses. Where the sky seems to always stay gray and ominous. No matter how much the sunlit clouds, billowy and free, peek through the clear blue sky, the foggy and bleak weather lingers on forever. Isolated from a world where happiness exists. Much like the hidden words of the diary. If Junhui ever feels brave enough to open it, that is.

The book trembles in his hands. When did his hands become so unsteady? The butterflies that fluttered inside his stomach when he first noticed the book arranged on the hardwood floor, now are ravenous maggots ripping him apart. The jejunum, the ileum. Only bits and pieces of his organ remains, turning into the bile that’s moving up this throat. He swallows, saving himself from vomiting all over himself and his renewed intimacy with objects that once were insignificant to his life.

It doesn’t feel real. Even though his fingers caress the front cover, the bound that keeps his unspoken sadness concealed, and tugs at the fabric of the ribbon that sleeps between two sheets, pinpointing the exact place to be found when opened again. He wonders if the choice of its placement was deliberate and thought out. Or if he hadn’t thought about it at all and was put it there without a reason. One side of Junhui’s lips perks upwards. He smiles, thinking about how even in death, he still remains a mystery, keeping Junhui hellbent on figuring him out. In spite of the anguish this catastrophe draws out of him, Junhui hope he never does figure him out. Forever, he hopes to try and put together all the parts that made up Minghao. He hopes he continues living inside his head.

He lowers his hands to the ground, treating the journal the way he would a delicate heirloom. As though it would shatter into tiny little remnants, scatter all over the floor. Not now. It’ll stay put for the time being, buried beneath the silence and shadows of the bedroom Minghao left behind. Their bedroom. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. Maybe he’ll put it to rest for now. Maybe he'll never look at it after today.

 

* * *

 A Sublime t-shirt.

The fabric that was once black is now discolored due to years and years of wear. Ripped and sleeveless. Minghao went through a phase in secondary school where he cut off all of the sleeves from his tops. It was a way to cope; a never-ending struggle with his emotions frustrating him to the point where he needed an outlet somehow. Destroying his clothes was one of the many ways he rebelled. Heartbreak and dejection only were spoken of when Junhui plucked valve after valve from his heart. A game of _he loves me... he loves me not._ Never knowing which petal he would end the game with. The only difference being, all outcomes are miserable no matter which one Junhui ends on. Alcohol and stimulants only made the tugging off each string less difficult, but the breakdown always stayed the same. Junhui had always preferred it, however, because Minghao would have no memory of the night before. Of the nights where he spent hours on the floor of the washroom in their apartment, on his unmade bed, on the tarnished sofa they thrifted from the shop a block away.

He brushes the beds of his fingers over each hole. Every loose thread. Junhui unconsciously picks it up, infecting his veins with the overpowering scent of sandalwood and tobacco. It smells like  _him_. It most likely hasn’t been washed since it was last worn. With this he begins to rot into the empty boy that had consumed him days before now; the heat of his skin causing the putrefaction of his shell into the cracked floorboards.

He allows the agony of disembowelment. His entrails are replaced with sulfuric acid and it eats away at his ribcage. He’s drowning, suffocating. Unraveling from the inside just as he did the day he was given the news. It’s the comprehension of the fact that he had worn this shirt, only to toss it aside; a frivolous concern to be placed in the back of his mind for the moment. Just as he did every day when he undressed. Junhui tucks the top into his arm, falling apart at the thought of the unawareness he had as to what would come to him. Did he know that he wouldn’t make it long enough to wash his discarded laundry? When the shirt hit the floor, did he know he was going to take his own life? _Took his own life_. That’s the words his mother chose to use, carefully and empathically, when she knocked on his bedroom door; told him to sit down, because this was going to hurt. Desperation clouded his mind, frantically trying to divert all of his bad thoughts. Into a direction much lighter than all the horrible possibilities his head is forming. Life can’t possibly be worse than any devastation that stimulates his brain.

But it could, and it did. And he became hollowness. Any trace of sensation was gone and forgotten. His limbs, his organs, his perception of reality. He stood off the bed, needing nothing else than to be far from his mother. From anyone. But he was numb. With his knees buckling under the weight of his heart, submitting to the cold, lifeless haze polluting the room. He felt nothing when he dropped to his knees; his sneakers, still mud-splattered and stained from the dreary and overcast weather, supported the burden of his body, turning the bottom of his black sweatpants sodden with rainwater. He couldn't feel, so it didn't matter. 

 

* * *

A dog tag necklace.

Hanging from a tattered leather cord.

Tied together in an unbreakable knot. _Just like our friendship,_  nine-year-old Junhui beamed without a hint of doubt as he handed a piece of himself to his best friend. The silver metal surface is cool to the touch and worn, but forever displays the words _to infinity and beyond_ in hanzi, and above that reads the date 10-06-1996. Junhui's birthdate. Purchased from Disney World the same year he passed it on to Minghao. He had known Minghao has dreamt about visiting one day. One afternoon he walked a block from his townhouse. Barefoot and face ruddy from heartbroken sobs. His parents told him they were too poor. They would never get the chance to travel, especially to any place as costly as Disney. Junhui almost wept with the younger boy. Holding him so close, in hopes that his pain would find a home in his body instead of Minghao's.

The last of the items Minghao's mother left for him. It was quietly waiting underneath the t-shirt for him to find. He runs his callused fingertips over the engraved characters. His hands still shake from fatigue. His insides were penetrated by the haunting of unbearable memories, exhausting every bit of him.

A gift from Junhui to Minghao. Specifically and solely for him. A rare gentle moment between the two boys at such a young age. When Junhui bullied him for being younger than him. And Minghao, he bullied Junhui for everything else. A laugh, bitter and tasting of copper. The lone sound in his, or _their_ apartment since Minghao's mother brought the possessions now belonging to Junhui. The other boys who share the rent with him are absent. They have been a lot after Minghao died. They're afraid to encounter him, in fear of witnessing the uncomfortable moment of lamentation from Junhui. Unable to handle someone whose grief has possessed their presence. In fear of burdening him further. In fear of their incapacity to eliminate a loved one's trauma, making their relationship awkward and strained. He prefers it this way. Alone with nothing but a sick heart and broken mind.

He stacks each item on top of another. The t-shirt, the journal, the necklace. The cracking of the joints in his knees, the lazy shuffles of his socked feet. The ending song to Minghao's life.

His fingers are weak. His arms quiver from the pull of the dresser handle. Broken guitar picks, crumbled exam notes from earlier semesters, dull box cutters, and worn out batteries. Minghao's belongings, now resting in the hideout place for his junk, along with the other discarded fragments that belonged to a past life. 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> so hey, thank u! i hope to improve a lot while i begin working on chapter numero one, but in the meantime this is wut i am able to give 2 u. but for real, thanks a lot. like, a whole lot. just taking a moment to read anything i write means an infinite amount to me. im gonna go cry now bye


End file.
